


One Way Glass

by astolat



Series: POI works [21]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Community: Meme of Interest, M/M, Make Them Do It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-12-08 05:02:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/757350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astolat/pseuds/astolat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elias was waiting for him in the small dark observation room, hands clasped behind his back. Harold was on the other side of the one way glass, sitting on the bare narrow bed inside the brightly lit cell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Way Glass

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted for the ["Mobsters make them do it" prompt](http://meme-of-interest.dreamwidth.org/1507.html?thread=6115#cmt6115) at the kinkmeme. Please note that there is a threat of rape.

Elias was waiting for him in the small dark observation room, hands clasped behind his back. Harold was on the other side of the one way glass, sitting on the bare narrow bed inside the brightly lit cell. He was sitting straight, shoulders back, eyes on the door; his face was expressionless. He was still fully dressed, suit neat, tie snug.

John couldn't help the tightening of relief in his gut. Seeing Harold alive, unharmed, made him feel better. But that was stupid: Elias had four men in the room at this moment, all armed, all wary, and John had spotted another two in the hallway. The bindings on his arms were secure: good ropework, elbow to wrist, behind his back, and looser loops hobbling his ankles. He had no weapons, no opportunities. If Elias wanted to kill them —

"The thing is," Elias said, turning towards him, "I really don't want to kill you, John. You or Harold. The two of you do good work. Honorable work. You save innocents. You make this city a little bit brighter. A little bit kinder." He smiled Charlie Burton's warm smile. "Harold plays a mean game of chess."

John didn't answer him, didn't respond. Elias studied his face a moment more. "I'm even prepared to tolerate the occasional operating costs associated with your work. On occasion I've even been of direct help to you. Really, I think I've been more than reasonable, John. But this — this was gratuitous."

"You were running guns through the Seaport," John said. "And you were going to kill an innocent man for finding out."

"Now they'll be running through New Haven," Elias said. "And we gave Mr. Wasio every opportunity to cooperate. I hope you know that if you'd made him disappear, if you'd even contacted me, brokered some kind of arrangement, we wouldn't be here. Frankly, even if you'd just taken out the guns. But you couldn't leave it at that. Instead, you went for the kill. Half of my dockside operations, ruined."

"Sorry to hear that," John said. "I thought it was more like three-quarters."

Elias was shaking his head slow, a pendulum swinging. "I make this city cleaner too, John," he said. "I hoped that maybe we had gradually come to an understanding. That you'd developed a sense of proportion about crossing my path."

"No," John said, and left it at that.

Elias nodded. "Right. But like I said, I don't want to kill you or Harold. Killing you wouldn't even be an adequate punishment, really, because you're both completely prepared to die at any time — something, by the way, which I admire tremendously. But that means a threat to your lives has no force. So what I need you to understand, John, is that there are worse things I can do to you than kill you."

He turned to the small cell, to Harold sitting there quiet and compact under the glare of the hot lights, and John felt a slow terrible clenching in his gut.

"Here's what's going to happen, John," Elias said. "We're going to untie your arms and escort you inside that room." He indicated the cell through the glass with one finger. "And there, you are going to rape Harold."

John stared at him. Elias turned around. His face was still wearing a veneer of calm reason, untroubled. "You aren't going to say a word," Elias said. "You won't explain, you won't say anything. Or, alternatively," he added, gesturing to the chair standing in front of the glass, "you can have a seat here, and the two gentlemen you saw out there in the hallway will go in and do it instead, while you watch."

John didn't move, didn't breathe. The two men on either side of him were holding his upper arms, tight. He couldn't have made it to Elias — not even with teeth, he couldn't get the fifteen seconds it would take to lock his jaws, rip open the jugular.

"It's up to you, John," Elias said. "I should mention, however, that both of those gentlemen have friends who've gone to prison for several years as a result of your most recent work, and I wouldn't expect them to have much consideration for Harold's comfort."

John stared past him at Harold, small in the open space of the room, pale, his face showing nothing. Harold would flinch when he realized what they were going to do to him; he wouldn't be expecting it. But after that, he'd — he'd go stoic, his face rigid and blank, the way it got when he hurt himself working, one of the old injuries —

"Elias," John said, barely, "you really should kill me now."

"No, John," Elias said. "I _won't_ kill you. You and Harold are going to walk out of here today. And you are both going to do so with the knowledge that I can imagine something you can't. That if you force me to do so, I can find something you can't endure. So that you keep that knowledge clearly in your minds, the next time you're faced with a similar situation."

John didn't move. He already knew what was going to happen. He could do this, for Harold. He was going to go in there, and he was going to carefully, gently, force Harold down onto the bed — Harold would struggle at first, bewildered, then horrified; John was already thinking how he'd immobilize him. He'd hold Harold face down, press him into the pillow until he was half-smothered, short on breath, the closest John could get to anaesthesia, and then he'd — do it, quickly.

And afterwards, once he'd gotten Harold safely back to the library, he was going to arm himself, go out and find Elias, and kill him. He'd be killed in the process, almost certainly, but that was acceptable. It was, actually, the only thing that _would_ make this endurable.

"Have you decided?" Elias said.

"I need a condom," John said.

"In the nightstand by the bed," Elias said. He nodded to his men. John felt them start to work open the knots. "Just so there are no misunderstandings," Elias added, as they untied him, "if some mischance should occur right now and you should be killed before you get in there, those men will be going in your place after all."

John breathed deep. Feeling was prickling back into his fingers and arms as they unwound the cords. He looked through the glass at Harold, waiting, _waiting_ , and he said, "Elias. You don't — you don't have to do this. The point is made. If you want an apology — "

"Sorry, John," Elias said. "It's too late for that. Okay," he said to the other men, and they turned him and took him out, into the hallway, past the two sullen, cold-faced men — big, heavily-built — and pushed him up to the door. There was a snub hard muzzle in the small of his back, and it might as well not have been there; the _men_ were the gun, what they'd do to Harold. John shut his eyes and breathed deep. Harold would know the truth, before John died. It wouldn't make this any less a betrayal, any less horrible, but — he'd know.

He pushed open the door and went in. Harold's eyes widened, and he stood up, relief in his face like a blow; John flinched from it, nauseated. "John," Harold said, and then stopped, as if he'd already understood something was — wrong. John forced himself to move, not to think. He had to do this fast, or he wouldn't be able to do it at all.

He crossed to Harold and took him by the shoulders and moved him towards the bed. Harold stumbled a little, caught himself, and then moved with him, letting John push him down — _trusting_ —

John's hands were shaking. He kept his eyes fixed on Harold's chest. He gripped the bottom of Harold's shirt, jerked it up, out of his pants. He had to — he had to unbutton Harold's pants, then he could push Harold face-down, and — no. The first button. That was the mission objective. Nothing else; the first button. He made his hands move towards Harold's fly.

Harold went still. He was staring. John didn't look at his face. The button. His hands were shaking, and the buttons were snug, _fuck_ Harold's bespoke suits, and this one was new, he'd only started wearing it a month ago, pleased when John had noticed, had said, "Nice, Finch, I like the purple stripe — " John was tasting salt, and he couldn't get the fucking button _open_ —

Harold's hands closed on his: lightly, not restraining. "Allow me," he said quietly.

John stopped. Harold unbuttoned his pants. He paused and then looked at John, searching, and then slowly, carefully, set his hands on John's waistband. John shut his eyes, shuddering with the mercy of it, while Harold unbuttoned him with steady hands.

Harold hesitated again, afterwards, but then he made what John mentally called his _in for a penny_ face, a quirk of mouth and eyebrow, and started taking off his tie. John found he could breathe again; he reached up with shaking hands and unbuttoned his own shirt. He took it off and turned to the nightstand while Harold took off his vest and his shirt. There were condoms and lubricant in the drawer.

It was Harold who drew him down, in the end. They lay face to face, pressed close on the narrow slab of the bed, and Harold kissed him first; Harold held John's head in his hands, with tenderness, and kissed him again and again. Harold stroked exploring fingers across his chest, thumbed a nipple, bumped fingers over his ribs, until John was breathless and hungry and shaking. And then Harold — and then Harold — slid the condom on, rolling it carefully down, and kissed John once more, before he turned onto his face.

John badly wanted to speak; he wanted to say Harold's name, wanted to say _thank you_ , over and over and over. He pressed kisses to Harold's marred neck instead, down the length of his spine; then he pressed two slick fingers to Harold's hole.

"Oh," Harold said after a little while, sounding vaguely surprised. "Oh. What a _strange_ sensation." After a moment he said, "A little to the left, please."

John tried a little to the left, and then Harold wanted them deeper, and wanted him to — to _thrust_ , Harold making low, breathy gasps. "Your hand," Harold said, panting, " — no, your _other_ hand," and gripped him by the wrist, demanding, and John wrapped his hand around Harold's cock and stroked him. He was sweating, the too-bright lights glaring against his back, the thick cheap cotton mat of the bed scratchy and hot.

Harold said, "All right, that's enough, I think; now, please," and John lined himself up with shaking hands and pushed in, a little, and then Harold said abruptly, "Do you know, I think I'd prefer without the condom, if you don't — "

John heard himself make a noise, wordless, helpless; he jerked out and pulled off the condom and _shoved_ back in, the sweet hot slide of skin on skin, Harold making a low _satisfied_ groan of approval, and John buried his face in the back of Harold's neck and fucked him, desperately, madly; Harold's hand was clenched painfully on his thigh, urging him on, his gasps beautiful, low.

Afterwards, John slid out and pressed his forehead between Harold's sweat-sticky shoulder blades and breathed in the smell of him. Harold was lying with his head braced against his folded arms, catching his breath in steady deep pulls. Finally he shifted his weight, and John sat up so he could turn over. Harold drew him down a second time, into his arms; Harold stroked his head gently, over and over, while John shivered with gratitude, and then Harold said, "The door is open."

John jerked up and looked: the door was standing wide open, no sign of anyone on the other side. He stood up and jerked his pants back on, shoved his feet into his shoes and tied the laces in a fast knot. He still didn't risk speaking; he waved Harold to stay in the room and stepped out. But the hallway was empty.

The observation room was empty, too. There was only a single video camera, aimed into the cell, small, the recording light still on. There was a post-it note tacked on: _Remember: a sense of proportion._

He took the camera back with him. Harold was already fully dressed again, tucking his rolled-up tie into a pocket. He'd laid out John's suit jacket and shirt on the foot of the bed. He looked up as John came back into the room.

"They're gone," John said. His own voice sounded strange to him, like he hadn't used it in years, not just for half an hour. "There's no one here."

#

Back at the library, Harold hooked the camera to a standalone laptop. In the video, the door to the cell cracked open about two minutes after John had gone into the room. It happened before they'd even taken their shirts off. Elias bent over and peered into the camera and said, "Looks like you two have got the idea, so we'll let you have your privacy. Keep our conversation in mind, John." He straightened up; he and his men walked out, shadows moving past the scene in the cell.

On the screen, the two of them were undressing, lovers getting ready to go to bed together.

_I can imagine something you can't,_ Elias had said. _I can find something you can't endure._

Harold watched the video unblinkingly, leaning back in his chair, hands on the armrests. John stood behind him, hand on the back of his chair, while the universe of things he couldn't endure went on expanding like a blast cloud.

Harold reached forward to turn the video off as they lay down together. He sat back. His gaze was aimed somewhere at the keyboard, fingers of one hand playing a slow drum-roll against the arm of his chair.

"Now what?" John said, low.

Harold looked up at him, an ordinary look that went on too long: eyes soft, lingering; terrible warmth curled in John's stomach. He bent down and kissed Harold, again and then again. Happiness sank into him like claws, and he slid to his knees and rested his head into Harold's palms, held up to cradle him, cool against his skin.

John saw only one option, one ending: the heat-death of the universe in another small dark room, Elias equably and relentlessly shredding Harold in front of him before letting him go to the mercy of a final gunshot, one he'd have to fire himself. He didn't know how to go another way, but he didn't know how to travel that road, either, his terror exactly what Elias had wanted.

Harold's thumbs stroked over his temples. "There's nothing to be done," he said. "It's too late, I'm afraid; Elias has made his intentions clear." He sighed. "I suppose he could run," he added, "but we'd have to explain why, and I won't do that."

John raised his head, stared at him. Harold's face was drawn, but unafraid; he wasn't — "Harold," he said. "What are you talking about? What's going to happen to Elias?"

"Oh, any number of things might happen. A traffic light changing too soon as he's crossing the street. The wrong drug dosage dispensed at a pharmacy. A piece of construction equipment at a work site malfunctioning. An extreme power surge in electrical lines while he's walking over a metal grate. Or, for that matter, his number being given to — certain other people."

"The Machine," John said. "You think the Machine — "

"Will intervene? Oh, yes," Harold said. "The Machine has always taken a dim view of threats to the system, and this is certainly an extreme one. Elias isn't simply threatening to kill us," he added. "He's actively sought leverage to control us with. And someone who can _control_ me — " Harold stopped, shrugged with his eyebrows and his mouth. "I'm — quite sure that the Machine will act."

He looked tired, his shoulders bent, unhappy. John closed his eyes and buried his face in Harold's lap. He wasn't sorry at all.

# End

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> With many thanks to lim and leupagus! All fb loved. <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [One Way Glass: Shattered](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6218404) by [idinink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/idinink/pseuds/idinink)
  * [On the Other Side of the Mirror](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10691733) by [Zaniida](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaniida/pseuds/Zaniida)




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